


You Belong With Me

by EllaCygnet (earlylight)



Series: Strummy-Strummy-La-La Verse [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek, Taylor Swift (Musician), You Belong With Me - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bastardizing Shakespeare, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/EllaCygnet
Summary: Taylor Swift is just trying to get through high school so she can finally pursue her dream of becoming a country singer, but it’s hard to focus on AP Bio when the beautiful and popular Rachel Brooks is around. The only problem? She’s got a boyfriend - and he’s a total asshole. But maybe Taylor can make true love find a way.[A 'fic-within-a-fic' as an in-universe companion piece to Chapter Four ofYou and Me and This Temptation]
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/Rachel, Taylor Swift/Rachel (Schitt's Creek)
Series: Strummy-Strummy-La-La Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1477049
Comments: 28
Kudos: 28





	You Belong With Me

**Author's Note:**

> _[This is written by a fictional writer living within the Strummy-Strummy-La-La Verse - so, if you're here accidentally, yes, it will make very little sense out of context, lol. Opinions expressed by the 'author' in the body and notes of this work do not reflect my own.]_
> 
> Hey so finals have been kicking my ass but I am BACK with more Taychel to help tide y’all through to summer break. Well, kind of, since this is basically set in the You Belong With Me music video verse so it’s technically Rachel x Good Taylor’s character (with Patrick playing the role of the Evil Taylor character, lol). And yes, I know that Rachel’s a few years older than Taylor and grew up in Canada, but for the purpose of this fic they’re both the same age and go to Taylor’s high school together. Also, shoutout to irl Mrs. McDooley (name changed for privacy reasons obvi) whose classroom I’m currently writing fic from because nerd privilege, lol. P.S. standard disclaimer stuff, none of this is real etc and please don’t tweet this to Taylor or Rachel, or Patrick (sorry how you come off in this fic but you broke Rachel’s heart so [Inigo Montoya voice] prepare to die)

Tuesday is Tutoring Day. To be clear, this is not stalking, because everyone knows cheer practice takes up most of Rachel’s week, so tutoring is always on a Tuesday afternoon. And everyone knows Rachel and whoever she’s gently coaxing through _Romeo and Juliet_ take up that corner table by the window because that’s their _spot,_ in the same way that everyone knows Taylor spends her Tuesday afternoons doing her trig homework in Mrs. McDooley’s classroom right across from the library, because Mrs. McDooley is a soft touch and understands that if Taylor went outside, someone would probably steal her glasses and throw them in the pond again. That’s high school – for better or for worse, like a thousand-piece puzzle, everything is set in its place. Even, sometimes, when the pieces don’t exactly align – when your perfect match is sitting two panes of glass and empty air away, flashing her coppery hair in irritation at something her asshole boyfriend is saying, wedged too tightly in the wrong corner. 

He exits the scene. Sadly, not pursued by a bear. Rachel throws a pen at the table in frustration, whipping around to the window too quick for Taylor to pretend like she wasn’t watching. _Oh god,_ she thinks,_ abort, abort – _she turns back to her homework, gripping her pen like it’s meant to singlehandedly dig her right out of this hole. _She didn’t see me. It’s fine. I’ll just_— but looking over again was a mistake, of course it was, because Rachel is _still watching_, a sweet little smile on her face, and she even has the temerity to give her a tiny wave.

Screw her courage to the sticking place. Heart rabbit-fast in her chest, Taylor takes her pen with a shaky hand, scribbling quickly across a sheet of loose leaf, and holds it up to the window. **Everything OK?** her missive reads. Rachel smiles again, and then turns away. Sighing, Taylor returns to trigonometry, except – something flickers out of the corner of her eye, and when she glances up, Rachel has a sheet of paper pressed to the window. **Tired of drama**, it reads. Taylor catches her eye, and Rachel shrugs, her lips pressed in a small smile. But then, the boyfriend’s back, and the paper is quickly crumpled and hidden away.

Boy meets girl, boy fights with girl, boy probably says some stupid bullshit to girl to get her back, girl forgives him. Tale as old as time. But this isn’t a love story.

*

AP Bio is Taylor’s favourite class. Not because it’s a subject she really cares about – AP Bio is a means to an end, to provide the credits she needs to graduate so she can leave this town behind, follow her heart to Nashville on golden strings, perfectly tuned – no, the actual subject of her affection is one Rachel Brooks, gliding into the classroom with a bright smile behind her tumbling waves of auburn hair. She’s in a _Beatles_ crop top and short, dark skirt today, and her legs are freckled and oh so lovely – in contrast, Taylor’s own blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing some dumb thrift store T-shirt printed with the periodic table and faded jeans cuffed above black Converse, hiding spindly giraffe legs that no one would ever call lovely. It’s stupid to think that someone like Rachel would ever notice her, especially in the way she _wants _to be noticed, but—Rachel catches her eye before she can look away and flashes her that thousand-watt smile, warming her right down to her toes. Taylor smiles back, and then it curdles, because right on cue _Patrick Brewer_ saunters into class, taking the seat next to Rachel and wrapping a possessive arm around her shoulders. 

Patrick Brewer, star quarterback of the football team, darling of the drama department, High School Musical eat your heart out. Sure, on paper he’s just perfect – except, on _paper_ his answers to the pop quiz they’re doing today are all actually Rachel’s. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten into AP Bio without them. Course, Mrs. Jones never notices – Patrick’s got the teachers all wrapped around his fingers. Taylor glares daggers at him as she takes her completed quiz up to Mrs. Jones. She wishes they would manifest. 

“Hey, Sweet Pea, I’ll take them,” Rachel is saying. _Sweet Pea, _Taylor thinks sourly, _more like peabrain._ Rachel brushes past Taylor, who tries to suppress a shiver at the glance of her hand at her wrist, a quick flash of warmth – and, god, it’s so unfair that she smells _so good_, like some kind of vanilla-cinnamon goddess_._ Though, she probably has to, to overcome the aura of Axe Body Spray at her side.

“Class dismissed!” Mrs. Jones says, unnecessarily, once the bell rings. “Don’t forget to keep up with your reading on the organelles of the cell – you never know when a pop quiz is lurking.”

Patrick practically leaps up, grabbing his bag. “Sorry, babe, I’ve got training,” he tells Rachel, as Taylor slowly packs her ballpoint pen set away, very much not eavesdropping at all. 

“But it’s date night tonight,” Rachel hisses. Taylor is being _real_ fastidious with these pens. “I literally cleared my schedule. You know how hard that is for me.”

“I know, I know, Sugarplum,” Patrick says, placatingly, “But you know it’s the big game tomorrow, and coach wants me to—”

“I _know _it’s the big game, because I am _cheering_ at it,” Rachel argues, “I am the captain of the squad, and I took the night off before the game so you and I could get time to—”

“Look, we’ll talk about it later, okay?” Patrick says, rubbing a hand at her shoulder, and then he’s gone again. They really need to get ahold of that bear. And Taylor really needs to get out of here because there is literally no one left in this classroom so she has absolutely no excuse to still be in here (read: hanging out with the teacher, as is her reputation – except that Mrs. Jones absconded the building faster than any of the students, making a beeline to the carpark for her 3pm cigarette). She hastily snatches up her backpack, heading for the door.

But then— “Hey, Taylor,” Rachel calls out.

Taylor’s heart makes a gamely attempt at punching a hole through the (likely, asbestos filled) classroom wall. She jerks a quick look behind her – no one directly at her back – and then back to Rachel. “I—me?” she stutters.

“Why, is there another Taylor Swift?” Rachel asks, mouth quirking up. Taylor feels her ears pinking, her terrible, awkward body betraying her, once again. “Well, if you see her, can you let her know that Rachel Brooks’ night has suddenly freed up, and that since Taylor is killing it at AP Bio right now, Rachel would love to get a headstart on the homework for next class if she’s available.”

“She, um, would be happy to,” Taylor replies, somewhat shakily. “That is, I would be happy to. If I’m still following. Um. Yeah.”

“Great,” Rachel replies, flashing her a grin. “I’ll see you at seven.”

*

“So,” Taylor begins, “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Rachel smiles. “Like the heart?”

Taylor’s own heart ticks up. She gulps, audibly. “Uh, yeah. Like the heart.”

Rachel’s smile deepens, and then she tosses her books aside. “I’ll be honest, I’m not really into any of this.” 

“Sorry,” Taylor mumbles, somewhat crestfallen. “I don’t think I’m very good at tutoring.”

“No, no, you’re perfect,” Rachel says. _Perfect,_ the powerhouse of Taylor’s body yells at her, and she tells it very firmly to shut up, _shut up, keep it cool_— “I should’ve phrased that better, I meant more like – studying. AP Bio. School, you know? I’m just—god, I’m so over it. I just can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Me too,” Taylor replies. “I mean, okay, I know what I look like. Nerd, teacher’s pet, that’s the label I’m stuck with, but I don’t care about any of it. Once I graduate, I’m going to burn all these textbooks. Okay, no,” she amends, “I can’t burn a book. I’ll donate them to a library, or something.”

“Really sticking it to the man there, TSwift,” Rachel teases. “But yeah, it’s like, people live and die on their reputation around here, they act like high school is the most important thing in the world. But it’s all background. Ten years from now, we’ll look back and wonder why we ever cared so much about any of it.”

“Patrick doesn’t seem to feel that way,” Taylor mutters, and then immediately slaps her hand over her ruinous mouth. “I—I’m sorry. That was inappropriate, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Rachel cuts in, smiling. “‘Tired of drama’, right?” She mimes writing it out into the air, then sighs. “I don’t know. We’re always – back and forth, on and off. He’s… useful. To have around. Among the high school heavyweights, the reputation sticklers. And there’s times when he can be so sweet, and I wonder why I ever doubted that we’re the perfect couple, Sugarplum and Sweet Pea, ready to take on the world. But then… you know.” She laughs, somewhat bitterly, brushing it off, and Taylor would go to _war_ for her, she would mount a horse and lift a _sword_—and then Rachel’s eyes light up. “Oh, is that an _acoustic guitar _I spy hiding away in that corner?”

“Yeah, that’s just—it’s nothing,” Taylor babbles, caught entirely off-guard, enough for Rachel to zip by and grab her baby from its little hidey-hole behind her dresser.

Rachel strums a chord, and raises an eyebrow. “Perfectly tuned,” she comments, “Which means it’s _not _nothing, and a certain someone is actually using this very frequently.”

It’s so, _so _unfair for Rachel to be both beautiful _and_ whip-smart. You just don’t win that kind of genetic lottery. Not in _this_ economy. And especially not at this school. “I—maybe,” Taylor murmurs.

“Okay, I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” Rachel says, sitting back down in front of her, Taylors guitar sat comfortably on her lap. “_All you need is love,” _she sings, picking the notes out down the strings, humming along with it, _ba-da-dadada_, _“All you need is love, love – love is all you need.”_

“That was—you’re really good,” Taylor says, shyly. 

“Good, because I’m kind of banking the rest of my life on it,” Rachel replies. “Once I get out of this town, I’m going to get into the music business. See if I can make a name for myself. Or, at least, have a good time trying.”

“Oh my god, me _too,_” Taylor says, excitedly. “I want to go to Nashville and sign with a country label, write about—about love, sing it out to a crowd—”

“Okay, then, your turn,” Rachel says, impishly, and thrusts the guitar at Taylor, who almost falls off her cushion in the process of taking it. “Play me something. Play me like one of your French girls.”

Taylor is _very glad_ the lighting in her room is dim enough to hide her reaction to that very salacious_ Titanic_ reference. “Um,” she begins, clearing her throat, her mind suddenly a roaring blank. “I don’t—what do you want to hear?”

“A Taylor Swift original,” Rachel says. “Hey, you want to be a big country star, you’ve got to fill in those boots, so, c’mon. Show me what you’re working with.”

Taylor sets her fingers to the frets, taking a steadying breath. There’s only one song in her head, right now. She doesn’t think she could stop herself from playing it if she tried. _“You’re on the phone with your boyfriend, he’s upset,”_ she begins, soft and low._ “He’s going off about something that you said, he doesn’t get your humor like I do…”_ She takes a deep breath, focusing on her fingers at the strings, because she can’t look at Rachel right now or she’s going to give away the game. _“I’m in my room, it’s a typical Tuesday night, I’m listening to the kind of music he doesn’t like, and he’ll never, know your story like I do…_” she trails off, clearing her throat. “Um, that’s it. It’s—it’s a work in progress.”

Except that’s a lie. The whole song is written out, in shaky writing on a piece of loose leaf, scrawled in the margins around the thick lines of **Everything OK?** But to spell it out would be a point of no return – she can’t sing out _she’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers _in the same breath as _dreaming about the day that you’ll wake up and find, what you’ve been looking for has been here the whole time_, and then, _can’t you see, you belong with me_, because then Rachel will see her for who she is – a sad, lonely stalker with a big, pathetic crush on the popular girl with the picture perfect boyfriend. Having Rachel as a friend is enough. This is not a love story, but it can still have a happy ending.

“Well, work in progress or not, it’s amazing,” Rachel says, softly. She pauses for a moment. “You’re not like the other girls, you know. There’s something about you, Taylor Swift. Something special. You’re going to have that name in lights, I’m sure of it.” She reaches out a hand, hesitant. “I—may I?”

Taylor doesn’t really know what she’s going to do, but for Rachel, she’ll jump without ever having to ask ‘how high?’. It’s one of the very weird things about love – how it makes you a coward, and at the same time, makes you braver than you’ve ever been. So she nods, unsteadily, and Rachel’s hands brush at Taylor’s cheeks as she gently removes her glasses, setting them aside. She’s just as lovely in soft focus – a warm, coppery blur. Rachel’s hands smooth back across her hair, and Taylor’s breath hitches – there’s a tug of pressure, and then Taylor’s messy, unruly curls tumble down across her shoulders. “See?” Rachel murmurs. “There. You’re beautiful, even when you’re hiding. But it’s nice to bring it into the light.”

“Well, light or no light, I really can’t see much of anything,” Taylor mumbles, pinker than she’s ever been, love trembling in the cage of her chest. Rachel laughs, and hands her back her glasses – and the moment is gone, for now, but Taylor will spin it out of the air later into her journal, like a flower pressed between the pages.

“I have to go,” Rachel says, gathering up her books. “I’ll see you at the game tomorrow, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Taylor promises. 

*

Taylor is weirdly nervous the whole day leading up the football game. Not because she actually cares about _sports_ – because like, a bunch of guys smashing their heads into the dirt and each other, _no thanks_ – but because Rachel’s going to be there, leading the cheer squad, and Rachel said_ I’ll see you at the game tomorrow,_ like she actually cares that Taylor would be there. Like Taylor could pretend that Rachel might even look forward to it as much as she is.

Taylor gets a good spot on the bleachers where she has a decent view of the field right as the cheerleaders file in. Rachel’s in the lead in her cute navy blue and white cheer outfit, hair loose around her face like bright autumn sunshine and a smile to put the stadium lights to shame. Taylor ventures a wave, but Rachel can’t seem to see her amongst all the rowdy football fans. _Gimme an S! _she chants alongside the rest of the squad, waving her pom-poms peppily. _Gimme a P! Gimme an A! Gimme an R! Gimme a T! Gimme an A! Gimme an N! Gimme an S! _The crowd shouts each letter back to her, and Taylor pitches her voice as loud as she can, wishing Rachel could hear her voice cut through all the noise. _Gooooo SPARTANS!_

The plays might be kind of confusing, but it’s easy enough to read the scoreboard, and about halfway through the game it’s pretty obvious that the Spartans are actually _losing. _Taylor almost feels bad, until she sees Patrick Brewer throw his helmet down and stalk off the field during a break. _Suck it_, she thinks, almost gleefully. But then Rachel excuses herself from the rest of her squad and heads over to him, and Taylor’s heart sinks, and, before she even realizes what she’s doing, her legs are lifting her right out of her seat and pushing past the rest of the crowd, stepping quickly down the stairs and out onto the pitch – because maybe, for once, her body has figured something out before her mind has: that it’s time to get off the bleachers, and take a stand.

“You don’t get it, okay?” Patrick is yelling at Rachel, as the rest of the team awkwardly try to give them space. “This is our last game of the season, and I’ve worked my ass off to get the rest of the team here, and they aren’t even _trying!”_

“Well, maybe everything doesn’t revolve around you,” Rachel retorts. “You’re not the team, Patrick. You’re just one guy. And you can be replaced.”

“_Replaced?_” Patrick replies, incensed, “I’m the only one actually – hey, what is _she_ doing here?” he says, spotting Taylor. Rachel turns around, her hair flowing with the movement, and she smiles – small, shaky, but she _smiles_ at her, and the sliding scale in Taylor’s heart shifts from _coward_ to _courage_. “Get lost, AP Bio, we’re in the middle of something, here.”

“Leave her alone,” Taylor says, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“Seriously?” Patrick spits. “What right do you have to tell me how to talk to _my girlfriend?”_

“She has every right,” Rachel replies, “Because I’m _not your girlfriend_. Asshole.” She smiles at Taylor, again, and walks away from Patrick, planting herself squarely at Taylor’s side.

“No, this isn’t—this isn’t over,” Patrick growls, advancing on them. “You don’t get to walk away from—”

_I’d go to war for her_, Taylor remembers, and – she may not have a horse, or a sword, but she is _taller than Patrick Brewer_. And that’s enough for her to plant both her hands on his shoulders and _push_ him off-balance, hands pinwheeling, right into the mud. There’s a moment of thick silence, as Patrick stares up at her, stunned, and then the crowd behind her erupts into cheers. Rachel laughs beside her, and takes her hand, pulling her gently away as Patrick splutters and spits out mud, trying to get back up.

“I’m sorry you’re losing the game,” Taylor says as they walk back across the field, even though she really isn’t sorry at all.

“Maybe so,” Rachel says, with a shrug. She gives Taylor’s hand a squeeze. If not for how real this feels, if not for the warm press of Rachel’s hand in hers, she’d think this was all a dream to be shattered by her morning alarm. “You win some, you lose some,” Rachel continues. “But today? I feel like I won.”

She stops in her tracks and reaches up, pulling off Taylor’s glasses, just like before – except, this time, her hands stay pressed to her cheeks, and then she leans in, vanilla-cinnamon and cherry chapstick, and kisses her. Taylor’s heart almost stops, and then she’s kissing Rachel back – even as whistles and whoops sound from the crowd, as Patrick’s angry yelling carries across the field back where he’s being restrained by the rest of the football team, it all fades into the background, until all she can feel is the soft press of Rachel’s lips, moving against hers – and it’s perfect, and _maybe_, Taylor thinks, _just maybe_—

_Maybe this is a love story, after all_.

  


### Notes:

Thank you all for reading!! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think. <3  
  
ETA: @ all y’all PBrews/Brooker stans informing me that Patrick’s OOC/plays baseball and not football or whatever, like?? this is literally fan fiction, if you don’t like it don’t read, I honestly don’t really care about your tiny man and I would like to be excluded from this narrative (also Brooker is never ever getting back together, die mad about it xoxo)  
  
ETA2: okay yes for everyone asking I have seen That Video from Patrick’s 6/22 show and WHICH ONE OF YOU TOLD HIM (sdjfhksdh I’m kidding lmao but could you *imagine*) anyway whatever he made some points but no one sings You Belong With Me better than Tay and that’s the tea! 

[]() []() []() [](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/show_comments?work_id=22277404)

**Author's Note:**

> _[This was silly, but I had fun. I hope you did too. Cheers to Gus for letting me play around in her universe!]_


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